There may come a day
when all poets will congeal.
All poets will blister.
All poets will harden, igneous
from the magma of days.
From the blue lava called night
will come a time when
like forgotten maps
their tongues will be striped
and cold as empty homes.
These flocks of winter birds
these poets will
fill prescriptions
for a new leather
and ride out the day
on the slim backs of nouns.
These poets will lounge
like sand and grasses
on undiscovered beaches
where you will choose to wander.
Remember who it was
you might have been.
